


Explication

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Light Bondage, M/M, Masturbation, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-22 01:55:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1571756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There are times when nothing else will quite do but that electric almost-pain and the blistering clarity of self-consciousness in Justin's head." Justin likes to be watched. Sometimes Giriko touches and sometimes he doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Failure

It seemed like a good idea, originally.

There aren’t a lot of things that can make Justin blush. He can sometimes get a rise out of Giriko by being particularly vulgar or direct, but Giriko is  _always_  vulgar and direct, and repetition alone has sapped much of the blond’s awkward response to the other man’s suggestions. At this point words aren’t enough to flush his skin hot with embarrassment; even actions, the chainsaw’s hands on the priest’s body or even his cock in Justin’s hand or mouth or ass isn’t inherently enough, at least not to get a blush of self-consciousness out of the blond. It doesn’t make sense that  _fucking_  is fine, that Giriko can lean in and purr all sorts of impressively inventive suggestions into his ear and Justin will barely blink, but that when the chainsaw is  _not_  touching him, when Giriko’s feet away with his hands and words to himself, that the shadows in his gaze take on weight and presence of their own and lift all of Justin’s blood to prickle uncomfortable against his skin.

It’s not that it’s pleasant, in and of itself; if he were someone else Justin suspects he’d hate the feeling, avoid it as much as possible and cringe through it when it happens. But he’s not someone else, and there are times when nothing else will quite do but that electric almost-pain and the blistering clarity of self-consciousness in his head, when he  _needs_  Giriko’s eyes on him without the soothing contact of his hands, and it’s never hard to get Giriko to comply. It only takes a change of clothes, a pair of Giriko’s boxers and one of Justin’s own undershirts, so when the blond comes out and leans in over the back of the couch Giriko glances at him and doesn’t look away.

“Hey,” Justin says with forced casualness in his voice. “What are you watching?”

“You,” Giriko answers without any hesitation. The television hums in the background but Justin’s tuned into Giriko, now, hearing the purr of slightly fast breathing in his throat and the edge of a sigh when he tips his head back against the couch to eye the priest’s legs. “What are you  _wearing_?”

“Mm.” Justin straightens, rests a hand flat on the back of the couch to hold himself steady as he swings a leg up and over, climbs over the back to curl on the cushion next to Giriko. “I’m bored.”

“You came to the right place,” Giriko purrs, reaching out for Justin’s waist, but the blond shifts away, leans sideways and scoots back out of reach while he keeps talking.

“And I started thinking about you.” Justin tips his head back against the arm of the couch, stretches with more force than the motion requires so his shirt rides up around his waist. When he relaxes again he brings his hands to rest over the flat of his stomach, almost incidentally. “And how you pass the time.”

Giriko’s brow furrows into lines of confusion. “What, watching bad television?”

Justin laughs. “Not so much,” he says, and slides one hand down so his fingertip just creeps past the edge of his boxers.

It’s a tiny movement. Normally the subtlety of it would be lost on Giriko, who thinks and moves in huge sweeping arcs, takes up so much space Justin sometimes thinks he’s two or three people instead of just one. But the blond has the chainsaw’s full attention, and in the expectant confusion that one movement smooths the lines from Giriko’s forehead into understanding. The next breath the chainsaw takes comes out like a groan, and because Justin knows to look he sees the other man’s cock twitch against the fabric of his jeans.

That’s what he wanted, that funny breathless shock all across Giriko’s face. When he slides his hand down farther, brushes his fingers over hardening skin, he can feel the embarrassment rising too, flushing hot in his cheeks well before he can write off the color as arousal. His hands start to shake, fingertips as self-conscious as his thoughts, but Giriko’s chin is tipping down and his eyes are almost black, holding Justin where he is more effectively than a hand at his throat.

The chainsaw swallows, leans in as his hand reaches for the waistband of his boxers against Justin’s skin, and the priest shies away from the touch.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he snaps, quick and harsh with nerves. “Don’t, I want you to  _look_  and not  _touch_.”

Giriko growls in what sounds like frustration, but he does pull back, retreats to the far end of the couch so he’s not incidentally touching Justin. He  _does_  reach for the front of his jeans, opening the fly even as he says, “‘M allowed to touch myself,” as a demand rather than a question.

“Of course,” Justin breathes, the closest thing to seductive he can manage with his face going crimson with self-consciousness. Giriko doesn’t look away from him even to get his button open, his eyes clinging so tight to the front of the boxers that Justin has to actually shut his eyes before he can convince himself to catch the elastic and push the concealing fabric away from the grip of his hand on his own length.

It’s worth it, as it turns out, worth it for the way Giriko groans and the sound of denim catching on itself as the chainsaw shoves his pants open and out of the way. Justin still flushes hotter, but when he opens his eyes Giriko’s staring at him with his mouth half-open, tongue tracing over his lower lip in a movement Justin is  _sure_  is accidental. Justin whines, his hand clenching tighter over himself and his movements going jerky, and Giriko hisses in response, sliding his thumb over himself with the slow deliberation of centuries of experience.

“What brought this on?” the chainsaw asks finally, after a moment or minutes or silence, Justin’s not sure which. Giriko’s voice is even harsher than it usually is, raw and low in his throat, and when Justin licks moisture back into his overheated lips and speaks his voice is appropriately higher to complement.

“I told you,” he manages. “I was bored.”

“And you wanted an audience while you jerked off?”

Justin flushes even hotter, but his hand pulls sharply against himself in more immediate response to Giriko’s words than his brain can form a denial. From there it’s pointless to backtrack, and he doesn’t really want to slow down, so he swallows hard and opens his eyes to focus on Giriko’s face.

The chainsaw’s watching his hand, to start, but as Justin keeps looking at him his gaze pulls up to lock onto the priest’s. He’s stroking his own length a little slower, a little more considering, and it’s hard to keep his eyes on the darkness in Giriko’s eyes with the tantalizing movement of the chainsaw’s hand just in his periphery, but Justin forces himself to hold the eye contact and starts talking, fast so he doesn’t have time to think about the words.

“It seemed more efficient.” He tips his head back, angles his head so his neck is almost offered to the chainsaw, a deliberate movement in spite of the flush over his cheeks. “Better to look at you in person than imagine you myself.”

“ _Imagine_  me?” Giriko’s voice drops so low that any trace of his usual rough tone is gone, swept away into rich shadowy weight in his throat. “ _What_  do you imagine?”

Justin laughs, the sound dropping warm with pleasure in spite of the panic still fizzling under his skin. “ _All_  sorts of things, Giriko.”

“Tell me,” Giriko demands, rocking forward so he’s leaning into Justin’s personal space although not touching him, quite. “Tell me what you imagine me doing to you.”

Justin takes a deep, shuddering breath, blinks slow, steadies the movement of his hand over his length so he can start off slow rather than desperate. “I.” His throat closes up; he has to shut his eyes before he can get himself to speak. “You. Sticking your fingers in my mouth, three of them at a time, letting me suck against them, run my tongue over your knuckles and the flat of your palm.” He forces himself to open his eyes, tip his chin to catch Giriko’s gaze again. The chainsaw’s watching him, head angled down into shadow, mouth open like he’s about to speak or just breathing hard. His hand has slowed to match Justin’s. “You shoving me down over the back of the couch, pushing a finger inside me.” Justin’s cock jerks under his hand and the blond increases the pace of his movements slightly in response.

“It’d hurt, with just spit,” Giriko points out, but his eyes are going darker and he sounds the opposite of displeased.

“Yeah,” Justin shudders. “Yeah, I know, I’d be able to feel every inch of just your finger, and you’d -- you’d tell me I  _liked_  it, insist that I was  _enjoying_  it.”

“Cause you would.” Giriko sounds faintly awed, now, overlaid atop the velvet purr of his current tone.

Justin nods jerkily. “Maybe you’d start jerking me off once you got a second finger in me, talk about how it’s proof, you can --” He groans in embarrassment and pleasure both, his hand picking up another increment of speed. “You can feel how much I like it.”

“I just jerk you off over the back of the couch?” Giriko asks, leaning in another inch like a child waiting for the ending of a story.

Justin laughs, shuts his eyes again. “No. You’d...pull free, turn me around and shove me down to my knees in front of you.” Giriko’s sharp inhale says he sees where Justin’s imagination is running; Justin swallows, slides a little farther back against the couch as he tightens his fingers, twists his hold on himself for extra sensation. “Tell me to open my mouth, grab a handful of my hair.” His free hand is up against the back of his neck, inadvertently acting out his words. “Fuck my mouth, over my tongue and down my throat, till I can’t breathe around how fucking  _big_  you are.”

“You’d like that too,” Giriko growls. His voice is very close to Justin’s ear, now. “ _God_ , you’d  _love_  it, look, you love even  _thinking_  about it.”

“And --” Justin can’t open his eyes, can’t stand to really think about Giriko watching him and he’s focused, now, anyway, lost in the image and the friction of his hand on himself. “And then you’d turn me back around, shove me back down without waiting for me to even catch my breath, and --”

There’s a shove, so sudden with Justin’s eyes closed that he can’t fight back or maintain his balance, just goes toppling sideways under the crush of Giriko’s weight. There’s a whimper that forces up his throat, desperate as his hand is knocked free, but then there’s teeth against his neck and the chainsaw’s hand closing hard around him.

“And  _fuck_  you open,” Giriko hisses, teeth scraping over Justin’s skin. The priest wiggles, not even sure if he’s trying to break free anymore, but it doesn’t matter because Giriko’s pinning him thoroughly in place. “Would you  _scream_ , Justin, would you --” He groans, bucks against Justin’s hip, and the priest realizes he can feel the desperate pull of Giriko’s fingers as the chainsaw jerks himself off as well. “ _Fuck_ , would you come just from that, just from the feeling of me inside you?”

“Giriko --” Justin starts. He’s reaching up for Giriko’s shoulder, half-thinking to push him away, but his fingers curl into a caress instead, and then Giriko shudders against him and comes over the curve of his hip and the flat of his stomach. Justin would laugh if he weren’t so hair-trigger close himself, if the grip of Giriko’s fingers on his hip as the chainsaw lets himself go in favor of bracing the priest weren’t enough to send him over the edge himself so he groans and jerks under the other man’s weight as coherency gives way to pleasure.

Justin recovers himself first, or at least has more to say sooner than Giriko. “You were supposed to just  _look_.”

“Shut up,” Giriko growls into his shoulder, biting just shy of painful to punctuate. “I couldn’t  _not_  touch you when you were fucking  _getting off_  on the idea of me  _subjugating_  you.”

“Wow,” Justin says, managing to pull his tone perfectly dry. “I didn’t know you  _knew_  that word.”

“ _Fuck_  you,” Giriko hisses, and bites harder, hard enough that Justin’s body instinctively draws back from the pain.

Justin laughs anyway.


	2. Success

It takes Giriko some time to catch up with what’s going on. He is expecting to just meet Justin at the door, wandering down the hallway like it’s a coincidence and not something he’s been waiting for for the last two hours, maybe get Justin up against the door for a kiss or a bite at the priest’s neck or a hand skimming over the front of his robes. But the door opens quickly and so quietly he doesn’t hear it coming, and then Justin’s sweeping into the space so fast Giriko takes a half-step back instinctively before he can rally his fight response over sheer surprise.

That’s all Justin needs, unfortunately, because the priest  _is_  prepared, has one hand in his alternate weapon-form and the cuff cinching tight around Giriko’s wrist before the chainsaw can do more than throw his arm up in reflexive defense.

“Hey,” Giriko starts, and then “ _Hey_ , what the  _fuck_?” but Justin’s talking over him and  _pulling_  him, twisting his arm down and around so Giriko’s pinned arm bends sharply and the chainsaw is hissing and stumbling forward in an attempt to relieve the pressure in his joints.

“Come with me,” like Giriko has a choice, like Giriko’s not  _already_  half-falling in his painful haste to follow Justin’s pull. The pain, or the almost-there threat of pain, is enough that he doesn’t even question where they’re going, doesn’t process until Justin jerks his arm and nearly flings Giriko onto the bed, greater mass or no. That’s worth an element of surprise itself, forming panic taking a sharp left into interest so quickly that it leaves Giriko breathless, and he’s just starting to grin and reach for Justin’s neck, just starting to purr, “You coulda just  _asked_ ” when the priest bends down, catches at something shoved under the edge of the bed, and then is back, throwing a leg over Giriko and settling his weight down over the chainsaw’s thighs so he’s pinning the larger man down as much as he can manage with his lighter frame. His arm is still in its transformed state, still twisting Giriko’s arm around almost entirely, and when the priest starts pulling cord out of the box he just dropped onto the bed Giriko sees where this is going.

“Seriously,” he growls, starting to edge into anger in spite of his undeniable interest with where this is going. “Just  _ask_ , fuck, you don’t have to  _jump_  me.”

“These have metal woven into them,” Justin says, which is  _no_  kind of an answer and such a non-sequitur it takes Giriko a minute to place the relevance of the statement. “You can cut through them, but it’d take a higher gear and you’d go through the mattress first.” He’s efficient, too, looping the cord around Giriko twisted arm one-handed with so much speed that the chainsaw would think he had experience if he didn’t know better. “I will be  _very_  angry if you destroy the mattress, so don’t try.”

Giriko hisses, arches his hips up off the bed in a momentary display of strength that rocks Justin back sharply enough that he nearly falls. “You think I  _give_  a fuck if you’re angry or not?”

The priest doesn’t even  _look_  at him, just twists his arm farther, past the point of threat and straight over into actual pain for a brief blinding moment. Giriko gasps at the shock and then it’s off, the pressure released back to a manageable level again.

“You give a fuck about whether you get to screw me or not,” Justin says, and Giriko subsides instantly, drops back to the mattress even though he growls in frustration. Justin’s made this threat before, twice, and Giriko’s not yet had the balls to push to see if he’ll actually follow through. He’s  _pretty_  sure Justin likes getting fucked as much as the chainsaw likes doing the fucking, but he’s not  _quite_  sure that the priest’s self-righteousness wouldn’t win out in this case, and even the possibility of loss is enough to bring him back to obedience, though even in his own head the admission makes him seethe.

Justin ties off Giriko’s arm so rapidly the chainsaw doesn’t realize he’s restrained until the blond lets his wrist go and grabs his as-yet untouched wrist to begin repeating the process. The cords are loose, though the knots are not; when Justin slides sideways and off the bed Giriko can sit all the way up without more than tugging on the rope looped into neat knots against his wrists, though he can’t quite reach to fumble the ties open with his own hands.

“You gave me a helluva lot of slack,” he comments without laying back down.

“Observant of you,” Justin says, moving away well out of reach. Giriko is expecting him to produce some additional rope and come back to tie down his feet as well, but Justin just folds in half to catch the edge of his robes and draw them up over his head in one smooth movement. Giriko’s face twists in confusion and he tips his head.

“Ain’t you gonna finish the job?” he asks, though he’s certainly taking advantage of the sudden loss of concealment to watch the pale skin newly exposed by the removal of his robes. He kicks gently against the mattress to demonstrate; Justin twists around to glance at his feet, then looks up at his face. When the blond smiles, there’s a sharp edge to it that tingles chill through Giriko’s blood, and the chainsaw can’t say whether it’s anticipation or fear behind the sensation.

“The job is  _done_ ,” Justin says as he turns back around, peeling his shirt up and off as well. The muscles of his back and across his shoulders flex with the movement and Giriko shifts, his body starting to get interested in the show the blond’s putting on even at the distance he’s at. “I just wanted to have you over there and not here.”

“What, you don’t want me to be getting you dirty with my fingerprints?” Giriko teases, but that chill is starting to go unpleasant with understanding. When Justin turns back around, leans back against the wall so he can pull the front of his pants open, Giriko groans even before the blond speaks to confirm his suspicion.

“I knew you’d get it if you just put some thought into it,” Justin purrs, condescension  _dripping_  off the words. Giriko hisses and pulls sharp on the restraints, hard enough that the bedframe creaks in protest, and Justin raises one eyebrow as he toes his shoes off and wiggles out of his pants. When he straightens he’s just got boxers on, showing more skin than Giriko usually has the patience to uncover when he has the use of his hands, and the thin fabric is not doing much at all to hide the blond’s rising erection. The chainsaw’s eyebrows go up, and when he speaks his voice is a weird grating combination of seductive shadow and sharp irritation.

“You get hard as fuck just from dominating me, don’t you?”

Justin doesn’t even  _try_  to deny it, just tips his head back against the wall and grins while he slides a hand down the front of his boxers. “What does it  _look_  like?” His eyelids flutter shut and he makes a  _sound_  that Giriko is pretty sure is overstated but goes straight to heat in his blood anyway, draws a grunt of discomfort and a shift of the chainsaw’s weight on the bed as he catches up to where Justin already is.

“I thought you didn’t like me watching you,” Giriko says, although he knows that is  _absolutely_  not true. “You always blush like a fucking  _virgin_  when you know I’m looking at you. Ain’t it easier when I’m  _making_  you respond instead of just you enjoying yourself?”

Justin  _does_  flush, at that, pink spilling out over his cheeks even though his eyes are shut so he can’t see the way Giriko is looking at him. He still manages to speak, although his voice is a little higher and more strained than usual. “I don’t  _dislike_  you watching me.”

That’s more than obvious, from the way Giriko can see the priest’s hand speeding up, and Giriko  _knows_  better anyway, but the blond is pretty when he blushes and Giriko can’t fucking touch himself with his hands tied back, so he growls, “If I’m gonna watch lose the boxers,  _Justin_ , I want to see how hard this is making you.”

Justin whines, whimpers as if in protest but his free hand is scraping over his hip and shoving the cloth down, as if his body is responding to Giriko’s commands without any of his own vocalized resistance coming into play.  _That’s_  thrilling in and of itself, even before the priest lets the fabric drop to the ground and Giriko can see the steady drag of the blond’s fingers over his own length. Justin  _is_  hard, very much so, and all the blushing he’s doing now is having no effect at all on his state, or at least not a negative one.Giriko groans, low and raw in the back of his throat, and Justin echoes him, the sound turning weirdly desperate in his throat as he rocks back against the wall and covers his red face with his hand.

Giriko’s satisfied with that -- he’s going on painfully hard himself, in the fucking jeans he can’t get himself out of right now, and with how fast Justin’s hand is moving the priest won’t last much longer. Then maybe he’ll let Giriko go, and the chainsaw can get his cock down the blond’s throat or Justin will let him fuck him and that’ll be enough, that’ll be  _more_  than enough. But then Justin starts to  _talk_ , and Giriko’s skin flashes into hot-cold almost-panic as he realizes  _ah, we’re doing_ this _again_  and his erection goes  _straight_  to painful even before he’s taken in the blond’s words.

“ _Giriko_ ,” he’s groaning, his voice sounds so desperate and aching that Giriko hisses in response rather than anything more coherent. “Giriko,  _god_  I...I want you to fuck me, I want you to pin me down to the bed and shove my face into the mattress and just  _pound_  into me until I scream myself hoarse.”

“Unng,” Giriko offers, helpfully. “Let me go and I  _will_.”

Justin drops his hand, splays his fingers flat on the wall like he’s holding himself up, slides his thumb over the head of his cock and whines. “I want...I want your mouth around me, on me, I want you to bite grooves into my hip and I want to feel your tongue on my cock, I want you to shove me back against the wall and hold me up when I can’t  _stand_  anymore for what you’re doing with your mouth.”

Giriko’s mouth is open, he’s gasping for breath and uselessly rocking his hips up off the bed, as if he’s going to meet any resistance but the air and the  _agonizing_  pointlessness of the denim of his jeans. “Justin, Justin  _let me go_ ,” he spits, sounding more furious than turned on. When he pulls on the cords the bedframe creaks again; Justin opens his eyes at the sound, blinks hard, and when his eyes come into almost-focus on Giriko’s face the chainsaw realizes that the flush over his features isn’t just embarrassment anymore.

“ _Justin_ ,” he wails, sounding horribly anxious, but Justin’s talking again, babbling rapidfire as his hand jerks over himself, as his free fingers come up to slide hard over his skin and up over the back of his neck.

“I want you to tie me down to the bed and just  _take_  me, or not, maybe just leave me there spread out and desperate, make me  _beg_  for your touch, make me  _beg_  you to fuck me until I come just from you  _breathing_  on me.” The fingers against the back of his neck are going desperate; Justin shuts his eyes again, arches his neck back so his head hits the wall, and the pace of his strokes goes erratic like his breathing.

“ _Justin_  let me  _go_ ,” Giriko demands again, though he has little hope of getting through at this point. “Let me go, I’ll get you in my mouth and you can come over my tongue or just come here and grind on me for half a second,  _please_  I swear to god if you make me wait I’m not going to let you go until you come  _twice_  more for me, I  _swear_  to you.”

Justin groans, bucks up into his own grip as his hips leave the wall, his fingers scraping down over his skin and leaving a path of red, and Giriko  _knows_  that sound, the jerky involuntary movement of Justin’s hand. He’s hissing in irritation even before Justin gasps and shudders as he comes over his fingers, his cock is  _aching_  in his jeans and he can’t get anything like enough friction, and Justin looks  _amazing_  when he comes but he  _feels_  even better and Giriko’s  _missing out_  on the convulsive shiver he can see running through Justin’s body. By the time the priest blinks himself back into the present and lets himself go, Giriko is keeping up a continuous low hiss of threat.

“ _Fuck_  you,” he spits as the blond starts to go sideways instead of taking a direct line towards him. “Fuck you  _come_  here and  _untie me_.”

“I need to clean up,” Justin says, as evenly as if he isn’t still coated in a faint sheen of sweat, lifting his sticky hand to demonstrate, all his usual poise fully back in place.

“ _No_ ,” Giriko snaps, jerking hard on the cords so the frame actually squeaks and something starts to give before he lessens the tension. “ _No_ , come here, you are  _not_  done, I will  _lick_  you clean if you want, just give me my  _hands_  back.”

Justin veers so smoothly Giriko isn’t sure he didn’t always intend to move, wasn’t always en route to the bed. Giriko manages to hold back until the priest’s fingers have loosened the knot from one wrist, until he feels the tie fall free of his skin to pool on the mattress. Then he moves, whip-quick, fast like Justin usually moves, grabs at the priest’s hip  _hard_ , hard enough to raise bruises instantly under his fingers and hard enough that he can shove his weight and flip Justin over onto his back and under the chainsaw.

“ _Fuck_  you,” he growls, grinding up against the blond’s stomach as the best he can manage at present, but Justin doesn’t protest, doesn’t even whimper at the too-tight grip. He reaches up as soon as he gets his bearings, fumbling the other tie loose until Giriko can drag his hand free, skin catching and burning on the fibers as he yanks loose. But it’s worth it, he barely even  _notices_ , because he’s got Justin under his body and under his hands now, he’s leaving purpling fingerprints on Justin’s hip and shoulder and wrist and Justin’s  _letting_  him, lying languid and drained on the mattress and still sticky with his first orgasm.

“ _Twice_ ,” he hisses against Justin’s ear just before he gets his teeth in against the priest’s neck, bites until he’s  _certain_  he’s left a mark. Justin’s gone utterly passive, laughing under him like Giriko’s desperate attacks on him are gentle caresses instead of leaving blood and bruises in their wake. Then he  _does_  move, gets his hand down between his leg and Giriko’s jeans, and the chainsaw bucks up into the pressure before he can think to restrain himself. He’s  _desperate_ , he’s  _aching_  for the contact, and he’s groaning in satisfaction before he can manage to grab Justin’s elbow and drag the blond’s hand free.

“ _No_ ,” he snaps, sliding down the priest’s body so he’s out of immediate danger of the blond’s questing fingers. “No, I said twice more, I  _said_  so, I’m  _not_  going to get off until I have you  _twice_.”

“Don’t be insane,” Justin says, sounding  _maddeningly_  calm although he’s not fighting or moving to so much as sit up. “There is  _no_  way I’m going to get off twice more in anything like a reasonable span of time.”

“Oh?” Giriko says, and then he licks across the priest’s stomach.

Justin hisses, rocks his hips up towards Giriko’s mouth with a jerkiness that speaks to the reflexivity of the movement. Generally the chainsaw isn’t fond of the taste of come, but right now he wants  _Justin_  in his mouth, the salt from his skin and the bitter taste of him coating the back of his tongue, and that’s overriding his typical distaste. “Then it’ll have to be an  _un_ reasonable amount of time.” He licks again, winning a whimper from the priest this time, comes up over the blond’s ribcage  before jumping to the inside of his elbow; Justin drops his arm flat to the bed to give the chainsaw better access. He’s starting to shake under Giriko’s tongue, trembling until Giriko’s not sure if it’s in reaction to the contact or the aftershocks of his too-recent orgasm.

“Turn over,” he says without pulling away, scraping his teeth over Justin’s shoulder to leave a smooth arc of red teethmarks on the priest’s pale skin. It takes the blond a moment to obey, but from the haze in his eyes and how fast he’s breathing Giriko’s pretty sure it’s from the daze in his thoughts rather than active resistance, so he doesn’t complain, not really. Once Justin’s turned over he  _does_  dig the palm of his hand into the priest’s ribcage, hard until Justin gasps for breath and wiggles in protest.

“You have a lot of skin,” Giriko observes, starting in on licking his way up Justin’s spine while the blond pants for air underneath him. “And you’re  _covered_  in sweat. You really do get hot and bothered by me watching you, don’t you?”

Justin whines into the mattress, the sound going low and muffled by the obstruction, and when Giriko laughs against his skin the blond arches up into the vibration.

“You’ll have to let me know when you’re ready to go again,” Giriko says, coming sideways over Justin’s shoulderblade. He can feel the blond shifting his weight under the chainsaw’s tongue in the flex of muscle under his lips; when he bites sharp Justin gasps and goes limp against the mattress for a moment. “Cause I’m gonna suck you off first thing, before I fuck you into the bed, understand?” Justin whines, makes a motion that might be a nod. It’s close enough, anyway.

Giriko grins even though Justin can’t see him. “Good.”

The inside of Justin’s knee is surprisingly sensitive, as Giriko discovers a few minutes later. He has to shove Justin’s leg down to the bed, pin his ankle down and rest his weight against the blond’s thigh before he can lick the last of the salt from the priest’s skin. Justin whimpers when Giriko bruises his ankle but offers the inside of his wrist up for the chainsaw’s teeth without even being prompted, his breathing coming stuttering and hard as Giriko’s mouth drags over the fluttering pulse just under the delicate skin. He doesn’t speak coherently for several minutes, just offers feedback in the form of groans or whimpered inhales, so when he  _does_  speak Giriko’s head comes up from where he’s currently working up the back of the blond’s thigh in surprise.

“Giriko.” He sounds strained, on-edge, and for a moment the chainsaw thinks he’s going to ask him to stop.

“I’m…” Justin starts, stops, takes a breath so sharply Giriko can hear the inhale even through the muffling effect of the sheets. The priest shifts, rocks his hips, and Giriko’s eyes catch the movement so he’s grinning even before Justin finishes his sentence. “Ready.”

“I  _love_  teenagers,” Giriko purrs, grabbing at Justin’s hip to turn him back over. Justin goes even  _faster_  this time; his face is flushed and his mouth open, he’s gasping for breath and still shuddering faintly like he’s shivering although Giriko can  _feel_  the heat radiating off him. And he’s hard again; he seems barely aware of it himself, at least until Giriko chuckles deliberately low in his throat and says, “You look even better up close than you did from across the room.” Then Justin’s flush goes dark, from the faint pink of arousal to the proper red of embarrassment, and Giriko ducks his head down to lick over the blond’s length while Justin’s still opening his mouth to stutter a response.

One of the only things Giriko loves more than Justin’s youthfully quick recovery is the way the blond goes to  _pieces_  under his mouth. He’s been shuddering against the sheets just from the chainsaw licking up over his bare skin; the slide of Giriko’s tongue over his cock earns the chainsaw a  _wail_  of reaction, and Justin’s back arches so sharply his shoulders leave the bed entirely. Fingers clutch at Giriko’s hair and the blond is curled in around him, gasping harder than he did even while he was coming, and Giriko knows without looking up that his eyes will be blown wide and dark in instant response.

“This won’t take long,” he observes aloud, and before Justin has a moment to even  _try_  to formulate a response he’s coming back down, taking the blond into his mouth to envelop him in the hot friction of his mouth. Justin makes a sound that would be a scream if he had any air in his lungs, jerks so hard he bumps himself up against the edge of Giriko’s teeth, and even that doesn’t seem to do anything but heighten his reaction.

Giriko rarely takes the time to do this on the bed -- more often Justin’s collapsing against a wall while the chainsaw holds him semi-upright -- and the shift in angle is  _amazing_ , leaves Giriko’s hands free so one can shove with gratifying force against Justin’s hip while he brings the other up between the priest’s thighs to cup around his balls. If Justin’s weren’t already gasping his throat raw Giriko’s pretty sure that would have earned a shriek that their neighbors could hear; as it is he  _writhes_  on the bed in spite of Giriko’s bracing hand, bucks up to slide farther into Giriko’s mouth, and even when the end of his cock bumps up against the back of the chainsaw’s throat the older man can’t quite bring himself to care.

It doesn’t take long; blowing Justin never does. There’s very little warning, given how rapidly Justin sank into incoherency, just a twist of increased pressure in the fingers in Giriko’s hair and, counterintuitively, a brief cessation of tension in the blond’s body. For a moment he sinks passive into the mattress, lets Giriko control the slide of his mouth over the blond’s length. Giriko’s just sliding back when Justin groans and comes hot and salty against his tongue, trembling so badly this time that Giriko can’t quite counteract it with the hand pressing down on his hip.

The chainsaw is grinning as he pulls back, comes up until he’s lying half-atop the other. “Justin.” The priest shudders, gasps for air that is refusing to come evenly into his lungs, blinks at Giriko like he doesn’t recognize him. “ _Justin_.” That helps, a little. The blond makes a visible effort to collect himself, to force his gaze into clarity on Giriko’s face.

Giriko waits until he has as much attention as he’s going to get before he leans in close enough to brush his mouth against Justin’s. “Kiss me, I want you to taste yourself in my mouth.”

Justin doesn’t even protest, barely hesitates before opening his mouth, sliding his tongue past Giriko’s lips to lick against the inside of the chainsaw’s mouth. His fingers are shaky in the other man’s hair, arms trembling just from the effort of lifting his arms off the bed, and Giriko can feel him breathing hard against his mouth for all that Justin’s not pulling away from the kiss. He hums in satisfaction and Justin whimpers, the sound faint but the sensation of noise clear against Giriko’s lips.

There’s a definite charm in feeling Justin quivering underneath him like this, but it’s doing more to remind Giriko that  _he_  still hasn’t gotten off himself than anything else, and after a minute he pulls away from the minimal resistance of Justin’s hands against his hair and the back of his neck. He doesn’t even bother asking Justin to turn over, not when it’s clear the blond won’t be moving of his own volition for a few minutes at least, and without any resistance it’s relatively easy to turn Justin back over onto his stomach on the mattress. Justin groans into the sheets, tips his chin down so his face in tucked in against the mattress, and mumbles something that might be ‘fuck’ and might be ‘Giriko,’ and the chainsaw doesn’t wait to find out which it is.

“I’ll take my time with this,” he says by way of reassurance. “Give you time to catch back up.” Justin’s shoulders jerk with what might be a laugh and might be a groan, but he doesn’t try to offer any more coherent response while Giriko locates the lube. His exhaustion makes him  _much_  more compliant; he lies still on the bed while the chainsaw gets the bottle open and his fingers slick, apparently focusing his attention on catching his breath and regaining some strength in his limbs. It works, as far as it goes; Justin’s inhales are still a little shallow but they’re even again by the time Giriko reaches out to hitch his hips up to a sharper angle and slides his fingers down over the priest’s entrance. Justin tenses on the bed but doesn’t speak; with his face turned away Giriko doesn’t have to restrain the softness in his gaze as he looks down over the smooth curve of Justin’s spine across the bed.

“Slowly,” he says again, before carefully fitting just one finger inside the priest. Justin doesn’t protest, barely even whimpers; the languid tremble of his body makes him pliant, relaxed instead of resistant to the intrusion inside him. It’s perfect, or would be if it weren’t for the fact that Giriko is trying to  _wait_  on his own gratification, and Justin so thoroughly submissive and warm-willing under his touch makes it  _really_  hard to resist the urge to seize at what the blond is offering. He twists his finger instead, presses up against the spot that always makes Justin scream, and the blond doesn’t quite wail but he does tremble like he’s been shocked, his hands going into fists in the tangle of the sheets under him, and that’s pretty damn gratifying in and of itself. A moment later Justin’s whimper gains syllables, turns audible and into Giriko’s name, and the chainsaw purrs in satisfaction and starts moving his hand, thrusting slow and steady into the blond spread out under him. He bends down to lick against Justin’s spine, winning another shivering laugh for himself, and before he comes back up he angles his hand to fit another finger inside the priest.

“Once more,” he reminds Justin, speaking low with promise over the other’s skin. “Once more before I come inside you, understand?”

Justin whines like he’s about to say no, but when Giriko angles his hand and thrusts sharp into him the whine turns into a staccato moan and for just a second the blond is rocking backwards towards the chainsaw, a hint of his usual desperation bleeding through.

“ _Good_ ,” Giriko grins, deliberately letting the sound go condescending. Justin doesn’t even protest that, although Giriko can see a flush of self-consciousness bleed across his shoulders. “This is what you get for not letting me go when I asked you, you brought this on yourself, you know.” He shoves his fingers in with enough force that Justin rocks forward, gasps sharply. “Are you sorry?”

He knows the answer, wants to hear it anyway, wants the excuse to spread his fingers and speed his pace. From the way Justin laughs, the energy of delight winning out for a breath over his shaking exhaustion, the blond knows so too. He takes an inhale, turns his head so the sound is perfectly clear instead of muffled against the blankets, and says, “ _No_ , I’m not  _sorry_ ,” just as Giriko knew he would.

“Don’t turn your head away,” Giriko orders. “I want to hear you.” Justin shuts his eyes, blushes red all over his face, but doesn’t turn back, so when Giriko thrusts his fingers in as hard as he can he can see the pained intensity of the pleasure that washes over Justin’s expression as he wails in uncontrolled reaction.

Giriko has no idea how long he manages to hold out. It helps to watch Justin’s face, to see the way the blond’s mouth comes open in perfect time with Giriko’s movements and the way his hands clench involuntarily into tighter fists as the chainsaw’s hand thrusts into him, but Giriko’s starting to sweat, his whole body winding tight with  _want_  in spite of his best intentions to get Justin as close as possible, and by the time he pulls his hand free and steps back to fumble his pants off it could have been two minutes or twenty, he has no way of knowing. At least Justin is starting to get tense again himself, enough that Giriko stepping back gets him to open his eyes and tip his head up to track the other’s movements.

“I’ll be right there,” Giriko says without a trace of teasing in his voice; he’s fresh out of the restraint necessary for such, at this point. “ _God_  I just want to be in you, I am  _no_  good at this patience thing,  _fuck_.”

Justin laughs weakly; then Giriko gets his jeans open, and the blond’s gaze drops to his cock and his laugh melds seamlessly into a groan before he turns his head back down into the mattress. Giriko doesn’t even bother chastising him, just kicks his jeans free and steps back in to grab Justin’s bruised hips and drag him backwards and into position.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” he’s muttering, not even thinking through the word as much as appreciating the momentary satisfaction the harsh sound of it over his tongue grants. He’s there, he’s  _right_  there, and then Justin tips his weight back and Giriko shoves forward and every single thought in the chainsaw’s head bursts apart into a rush of hot pleasure sweeping his veins. He’s groaning, he thinks it might be a curse but it feels like Justin’s name, and the blond is saying something, something half-panicked and almost a laugh; it’s a few seconds before Giriko can gasp an inhale and realize what Justin is babbling.

“Twice, Giriko, you  _said_  twice, you said  _twice_  more before you --”

“Fuck, I  _remember_ ,” Giriko hisses, although the sound veers a little towards a purr of pleasure in spite of his best efforts because  _christ_  Justin is just as good as he  _always_  is, hot and  _tight_  even with the extra time Giriko took this time, so fucking tight he could come easily, if he let himself. But he’s not, so he doesn’t thrust, just leans in to brace himself with one hand alongside Justin’s waist and slides the other in around to grab at the blond’s cock. He’s hard again, thank  _fuck_ , but then when Giriko starts to stroke over him Justin shudders and wiggles and it’s almost too much. The chainsaw hisses, drops his weight down over Justin’s back to hold him steady, and growls “Hold  _still_ ,” against the blond’s ear.

“I  _can’t_ ,” Justin offers. It’s probably supposed to have snap to it but it just sounds shaky. “I can’t,  _fuck_ , you --” Giriko strokes over him again, shifting his grip to get more sensation out of the movement, and Justin jerks under his weight again. “ _Giriko_ , oh god, it’s too  _much_ , it’s too much too fast you…” He groans, shudders again. “God, it  _hurts_ , I  _ache_  and  _oh_  fuck don’t stop.”

Giriko starts to laugh, desperate and tight-wound but amused nonetheless, shifts his free hand up to press his palm against the back of Justin’s neck to shove the priest hard into the bed. Justin groans, the sound half-lost to the blankets, and starts shaking, out-of-time to Giriko’s movements, the tremble of exhausted muscles humming through the line of contact between them. Giriko grins, turns his head to kiss at Justin’s blond hair, and keeps stroking over him, harder and faster than Justin can usually last through, until the blond’s exhales sound like sobs and even then are coming shattered out of time.

Giriko catches the edge of Justin’s ear between his teeth, hisses, “Twice, Justin,” and bites down. Justin doesn’t even scream; his mouth opens, his throat works, but he goes perfectly silent, just the wave of released tension quivering through him and the splash of liquid over Giriko’s fingers speaking to his orgasm.

Giriko doesn’t even wait out the aftershocks, this time. He lets Justin go, comes back upright so he can replace his hands in the prints he left on the blond’s skin, and thrusts himself into the priest before Justin has started breathing normally again.  _That_  gets him a scream, a wail and a shudder of overstimulated pleasure, but Giriko’s hearing is no longer important, and the shake of the blond under him only urges him on faster. It takes no time at all; he hits the edge so fast he’d push it off for the sake of his reputation had he not already been waiting for almost an hour. As it is Giriko just groans in satisfaction, slams forward into Justin with a last handful of desperate stuttering thrusts, and comes for what feels like minutes, heat washing over him in rippling waves until he starts to feel light-headed and has to consciously take a breath.

Justin is still shaking when he pulls out, still shaking when the chainsaw drops heavily onto the bed beside him. He rolls bonelessly pliant when Giriko pulls on his shoulder; his mouth is open, eyes still glazed with shocked pleasure and the onset of deep exhaustion, but when Giriko growls, “Are you sorry now?” his tired mouth curves into a faint smile, and he shuts his eyes, and shakes his head, and Giriko can only laugh and drape the weight of an arm across Justin’s chest to hold him steady.


End file.
